


What the Dickens.?

by dsa_archivist



Category: due South
Genre: Gen, Humor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 1999-03-20
Updated: 1999-03-20
Packaged: 2018-11-10 22:24:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,565
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11135868
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dsa_archivist/pseuds/dsa_archivist
Summary: Meg has an unexpected visit from her fairy godmother.





	What the Dickens.?

**Author's Note:**

> Note from Speranza, the archivist: this story was once archived at [Due South Archive](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Due_South_Archive). To preserve the archive, I began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in June 2017. I tried to reach out to all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address on [Due South Archive collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/duesoutharchive).

What The Dickens...?

**HUGE warnings for being amazingly stupid, and having Thatcher in it!** I wasn't going to post this at all, I only wrote it as a reaction to having to tell fairy tales, but Elaine has me running scared. So, Elaine, I'm offering this in return for a temporary reprieve, and I _swear_ I'm working on a story that's hopefully less stupid! 

Does this need disclaimers? Anyone who reads it will know it's definitely not official DS (I just hope I haven't offended DS! :^)) And Mitchell Lightfair is definitely my own sick, sick invention. 

The otter-tossing will be at my place tomorrow afternoon, I know I deserve it! 

Nik 

\------------ 

# What the Dickens...?

Inspector Thatcher was printing out a draft of a report when the young man materialised beside her desk in a cloud of purple smoke. If he had been hoping to make some sort of impressive entrance, it probably would have been better not to use the smoke, because he began to wheeze as soon as he became corporeal, and had to reach for his inhaler before continuing. By which time, of course, the inspector was leaning against the desk with her arms folded, an expression of pure contempt on her face. 

He was aware of having started at a definite disadvantage. Something about the inspector told him that it would be extremely difficult to redeem himself, and his next move was not going to help his case at all. He tried for an engaging smile, one that usually worked on women, but even though she smiled back, her smile was too much like a shark's for his liking. He cleared his throat nervously, pulled out a piece of paper and got straight into his task. 

"'Hello, Margery Fletcher'," he read aloud. 

"Margaret Thatcher," she corrected him sharply. He glanced at her, and then back at the paper. 

"Are you sure about that? It looks like 'Margery' here... oh, well, where was I up to? Okay, uh, wave," he waved without looking up, "'My name is', blah, blah, blah, 'and I'm your fairy godmother.' Give reassuring smile, pause to let the information register." He beamed at her in a determinedly non-threatening fashion and waited. 

She was staring at him oddly. "Let me see that." She snatched the paper from him and checked it. The handwriting was illegible in some places, but the 'fairy godmother' part was definitely clear. She shook her head, still disbelieving. " _You're_ my fairy god _mother_? And is 'fairy godmother' politically correct?" 

"Yeah, well," he coughed uncomfortably. "My sister's got the 'flu and I said I'd help out. Here." He reached into his jacket, and handed her a business card. "Normally I just do blinding flashes of inspiration, twinges of guilt, stuff like that, you know?" 

"Mitchell Lightfair. Mitchell. Good name for a fairy." 

The young man looked pained. "Uh, can we just think of me as more like a guardian spirit-type thing?" 

"Do I have to think of you at all?" Meg took up the print-out and waved it at him pointedly. "I have to finish this trade report by 5, you know, Mitchell." 

"Oh, this'll be quick, honest," he assured her, and checked his script again. "What's first... okay. 'Past: use of audio-visual material to establish client's character'." 

"Isn't this a little Dickensian, you know, more of a Christmas haunting? Whereas, if I'm not mistaken, you're supposed to be more along the lines of a Brothers Grimm character." 

"You trying to tell me how to do my job now?" he demanded hotly, unslinging his shoulder bag. 

"Well, no one else seems to have," she observed scathingly, and went to her computer, muttering to herself. "He looks like Ovitz, and he talks like Vecchio. Great." 

"Will you just shut up and let me do this?" Mitchell removed a laptop from the bag and set it up on Meg's desk, while she ignored him and typed away at her report. "Brett got the chick from the X-Files. Ryan got the woman with the huge bust from Star Trek. Me, I get the Dragon Lady." And then he exclaimed in dismay, "Password? Jodie didn't say anything about a stupid password!" 

Meg's temper snapped, and she snarled at him, "Oh, _give_ me that!" With more force than necessary, she shoved him out of the way, fingers tapping expertly on the keyboard to break the password lock. "There. Okay?!" 

"Hey, how d'you do that?" 

"I have a friend in the computer crimes section at Ottawa. Can we get on with this so you can get the hell out of my office?" 

Bridling at her words, but not quite brave enough to say anything, Mitchell fished a CD out of his bag and stuck it in the disk drive. He clicked on the appropriate icon, and watched in interest as a clip began to play. "Hey, cool. I should have checked this before I came... _ouch_ , that's gotta hurt." 

On the screen, Fraser had just reacted to Meg's approach by walking into his desk. The scene cut to Meg tearing strips off the constable. Then Vecchio was arguing with her. Then she was arguing with Vecchio. Fraser tripped over his wastepaper basket, and in yet another scene she was back to bawling him out. 

"Do we have to watch this?" Meg demanded, slightly uneasy. 

"He must be covered in bruises by now... sheesh. How hard is it to decide who drives?" 

"I can do without the comments, thank you." 

"Holy _cow_ , he got a hair pin out of your..." 

"Is this really necessary?" she interrupted him sharply. 

"...with his _lips_?!" 

Mitchell was far too absorbed in the clip, so she hit the stop button herself. "Okay, next CD." But when he wasn't looking, she hid the first disk in her drawer. 

According to Mitchell's script, the second CD, marked 'Present', let her look at what the people in her life were doing. After a brief moment of indecision, she clicked on Fraser's name. He was reading, Diefenbaker asleep by his feet. As they watched in silence, Fraser continued to read, the wolf continued to sleep, and Meg got bored. "Who else is there..." 

Detective Vecchio had just acquired a mini basketball hoop for his bin, and was engrossed in throwing crumpled balls of paper at it. Ovitz was making a paper clip chain. Turnbull was whistling cheerfully to himself as he sharpened pencils. Cooper was on sentry duty. Meg opted not to watch the rest of the CD, and thanked Mitchell, sweetly sarcastic. "I see the error of my ways. I think I'll rush out now and pay for Tiny Tim's operation, and buy coal for the consulate. Oh, but hang on, it's summer." 

"Oh, all right." Mitchell was having trouble remembering that he wasn't supposed to get into a fist fight with his goddaughter, but the knowledge that she'd win helped. He consulted the script one last time. "'Know ye that if you continue on your present course, this shall be your future.' Oh, hang on, that was supposed to be said in a dramatic voice. I'll do it again." To Meg's intense irritation, he did. "Okay, press 'play'." 

They watched it a moment. Fraser walked into a wall when Meg spoke to him. Vecchio was yelling at her, and then she was yelling at Vecchio and Fraser. She looked flustered, they argued some more, and Fraser tripped over a rug. 

"Is this the first disk again, or something?" she asked Mitchell snidely. He looked confused, checking the case. 

"No, it says Disk 3... oh, there's something different... Eww, he's putting that in his _mouth_?! There, that's what you've driven him to, he's going to kill himself by tasting stuff off the ground!" 

"Sorry to burst your bubble, Mitch, but he does that all the time." She shut down his laptop and smiled at him again, completely insincere. "You know, this has been really nice, but I'm very busy. And even if I wasn't, I'm sure I could find a pressing date watching paint dry." 

"You're supposed to have gained from this," Mitchell complained as he packed away his things. "You're supposed to have grown as a person." 

"I can feel my brain cells swelling out of sheer boredom, if that counts." She helped him shoulder his bag, and patted him condescendingly on the cheek. "If the consulate car ever breaks down, you can come and transform Turnbull's lunch into a Porsche for me, but until then, go bother someone else, okay?" 

He almost pouted. He was definitely sulking as he disappeared, shimmering like a transporter beam from Star Trek. Meg shook her head in disbelief, returning to the trade report, and muttering to herself from time to time. 

A few minutes later, Mitchell rematerialised, very cautiously, without the smoke. He looked sheepish, and hopeful - _now he's doing Cooper_ , Meg groaned to herself - and held the lap top out to her. "Um... what did you change the password to?" 

"Will you leave me alone?" 

"No, uh, really, 'cos I can't run my program without..." 

"Figure it out yourself, moron." She threw her stapler at him, and, startled, he dematerialised so he wouldn't get hurt. "Moron," she repeated to herself, and smiled in satisfaction. 

In the next office, Fraser went on reading. 

Nicola Heiser 

Nicola Heiser died on 24th October 1997, and is greatly missed by her friends and fans of her writing. 


End file.
